Dirty Sexy Club Scene from City of Lost Souls.

Comme Jace a gagné le tournoi dans lequel il était opposé à Zachary en finale on a droit de la part de Cassandra Clare a tout plein de petit bonus!!

Voici la scène très attendu de City of lost souls, le tome 5 de la Cité des ténébres, attention gros spoilers si vous n'avez pas lu le tome 4.
Cette scène sera différente dans la version finale du livre!

source

“What’s going on?” It was Jace, having fought his way free of the pack of dancers. More of the shimmering stuff had gotten on him, silver drops clinging to the gold of his hair. “Clary?”

 

“Sorry,” she said, getting to her feet. “I got lost in the crowd.”

 

“I noticed,” he said. “One second I was dancing with you, and the next you were gone and a very persistent werewolf was trying to get the buttons on my jeans undone.” He took Clary’s hand, lightly ringing her wrist with his fingers. “Do you want to go home? Or dance some more?”

 

“Dance some more,” she said, breathlessly. “Is that all right?”

 

“Go ahead.” Sebastian leaned back, his hands braced behind him on the fountain’s edge, his smile like the edge of a straight razor. “I don’t mind watching.”

 

Something flashed across Clary’s vision: the memory of a bloody handprint. It was gone as soon as it had come and she frowned. The night was too beautiful to think of ugly things. She looked back at her brother only for a moment before she let Jace lead her back through the crowd to its edge, near the shadows, where the press of bodies was lighter. Another ball of colored light burst above their heads as they went, scattering silver, and she tipped her head up, catching the salt-sweet drops on her tongue.

 

Jace stopped and swung her toward him. She could feel the silver liquid trickling down her face like tears. He pulled her against him and kissed them, as if he were kissing  tears away, and his lips were warm on her face and made her shiver. She reached for the zip on his army jacket, ripped it down, slid her hands inside and over the cotton of his shirt, then under the hem, her nails scratching lightly over his ribs. He stopped and cupped the back of her neck with his hand, leaning to whisper in her ear. Neither of them could be said to be dancing any more: the hypnotic music went on around them, but Clary barely noticed it. A couple dancing past laughed and made a derisive comment in Czech: she couldn’t understand it, but suspected the gist was get a room.

 

Jace made an impatient noise and then he was pulling her after him again, through the last of the crowd and into one of the shadowy alcoves that lined the walls.

 

This alcove was conical, with a low stone pedestal in the center on which an angel statue, about three feet tall, stood. It was made of black basalt, but its eyes were glass, like doll eyes, and its wings were silver. The floor was slippery and damp. They skidded across it to fetch up against a wall, Jace with his back to it, and then he was kissing her, bruising hard and hungry kisses. He tasted salt-sweet, too, and moaned as she licked the taste off his lips. Her hands threaded through his hair. It was dark in the alcove, so dark Jace was just an outline of shadows and gold. She gripped the edges of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders; it fell to the ground and he kicked it away. Her hands came up under his shirt, clawing at his back, fingers digging into the skin there, softness layered over hard muscle.

 

He kissed her harder and she clutched his shoulders as he sucked her bottom lip into his mouth and bit down on it, sending a shock of pleasure mixed with pain through her body. She squirmed to get closer to him and felt his breath quicken; she could taste blood in her mouth, salt and hot. It was as if they wanted to cut each other apart, she thought, to climb inside each other and breathe each other’s breath and share each other’s heartbeats, even if it killed them both. There was blood under her nails where she had clawed his back.

 

Jace pressed her forward, spinning them both around so she was pinned between his body and the wall. As they turned, he caught the edge of the angel statue, toppling it to the ground and shattering apart in a cloud of marble dust. He laughed and dropped to the ground in front of her on his knees among the remnants of broken statuary. She stared down at him in a daze as he ran his hands up her boots, to her bare legs, to the lace that edged the bottom of her slip dress. She sucked in her breath, as his hands slipped like water up and over the silk, to her waist, to grip her hips, leaving streaks of silver on the silk.

 

“What are you doing?” she whispered. “Jace?”

 

He looked up at her. The peculiar light in the club turned his eyes an array of fractured colors. His smile was wicked. “You can tell me to stop whenever you want,” he said. “But you won’t.

“Jace . . .” His hands bunched in the silk of her dress, dragging the hem up, and he bent to kiss her legs, the bare skin where her boots ended, her knees (who knew knees could be so sensitive?) and farther up, where no one had ever kissed her before. The kisses were light, and even as her body tensed that she wanted to tell him she needed more, but didn’t know what, didn’t know what she needed exactly, but it didn’t matter because he seemed to know it. She let her head fall back against the wall, half-closing her eyes, hearing only her heartbeat like a drum in her ears, louder and louder still.

 

Point de vue de Jace dans la scène du manoir

 source

Jace affrontait Ash dans une battle et comme Jace a gagné, Cassadra Clare nous a offert la scène du manoir qui se déroule dans le tome 3, du point de vue de Jace

 Vous pouvez trouver la version traduite en français chez ma partenaire Aurélia de TmiFrance ici

Clary heard a sharp pattering noise all around her. For a bewildered moment she thought it had started to rain—then she realized it was rubble and dirt and broken glass: the detritus of the shattered manor being flung down around them like deadly hail.
Jace pressed her harder into the ground, his body flat against hers, his heartbeat nearly as loud in her ears as the sound of the manor’s subsiding ruins.

* * *

Later, Jace would remember little about the destruction of the Manor itself, the shattering apart of the only home he’d known until he was ten years old. He remembered only the fall from the library window, scrambling and rolling down over the grass, and catching hold of Clary, spinning her down and under him, covering her with his body while pieces of the Manor rained down around them like hail.

He could feel her breathing, feel the racing of her heart. He was reminded of his falcon, the way it had curled, blind and trusting, in his hand, the rapidity of its heartbeat. Clary was holding him by the front of the shirt, though he doubt she realized it, her face against his shoulder; he was desperately afraid that there wasn’t enough of him, that he couldn’t cover her completely, protect her entirely. He imagined boulders as big as elephants tumbling across the rocky ground, ready to crush them both, to crush her. The ground shuddered under them and he pressed harder against her, as if that might help somehow. It was magical thinking, he knew, like closing your eyes so you didn’t see the knife coming at you.

The roar had faded. He realized to his surprise that he could hear again: small things, the sound of birds, the air in the trees. Clary’s voice, breathless. “Jace — I think you dropped your stele somewhere.”

He drew back and stared down at her. She met his gaze steadily In the moonlight her green eyes could have been black. Her red hair was full of dust, her face streaked with soot. He could see the pulse in her throat. He said the first thing that he could think of, dazed, “I don’t care. As long as you’re not hurt.”

“I’m fine.” She reached up, her fingers brushing lightly through his hair; his body, super-sensitized by adrenalin, felt it like sparks against his skin. “There’s grass — in your hair,” she said.

There was worry in her eyes. Worry for him. He remembered the first time he’d kissed her, in the greenhouse, how he’d finally gotten it, finally understood the way someone’s mouth against yours could undo you, leave you spinning and breathless. That all the expertise in the world, any techniques you knew or had learned, went out the window when it was the right person you were kissing.
Or the wrong one.
 
“You shouldn’t touch me,” he said.

Her hand froze where it was, her palm against his cheek. “Why not?”

“You know why. You saw what I saw, didn’t you? The past, the angel. Our parents.”

Her eyes darkened. “I saw.”

“You know what happened.”

“A lot of things happened, Jace —”

“Not for me.” The words breathed out on an anguished whisper. “I have demon blood, Clary. Demon blood. You understood that much, didn’t you?”

She set her chin. He knew how much she disliked the suggestion that she hadn’t understood something, or didn’t know it, or didn’t need to know it. He loved that about her and it drove him out of his mind. “It doesn’t mean anything. Valentine was insane. He was just ranting —”

“And Jocelyn? Was she insane? I know what Valentine was trying to do. He was trying to create hybrids — angel/human, and demon/human. You’re the former, Clary, and I’m the latter. I’m part monster. Part everything I’ve tried so hard to burn out, to destroy.”

“It’s not true. It can’t be. It doesn’t make sense—”

“But it does.” How could she not understand? It seemed so obvious to him, so basic. “It explains everything.”

“You mean it explains why you’re such an amazing Shadowhunter? Why you’re loyal and fearless and honest and everything demons aren’t —”

“It explains,” he said, evenly, “why I feel the way I do about you.”

Breath hissed between her teeth. “W do you mean?”

“You’re my sister,” he said, “My sister, my blood, my family. I should want to protect you —” he choked on the words— “to protect you from the sort of boys who want to do to you exactly what I want to do to you.”

He heard her breath catch. She was still staring up at him, and though he had expected to see horror in her eyes, some sort of revulsion — for he didn’t think he’d ever stated so clearly or so tactlessly exactly how he felt — he saw nothing of the sort. He saw only searching curiosity, as if she were examining the map of some unknown country.

Almost absently, she let her fingers trail down his cheek to his lips, outlining the shape of his mouth with the tip of her index finger, as if she were charting a course. There was wonder in her eyes. He felt his heart turn over and his body, ever traitorous, respond to her touch.
“What is it, exactly, that you want to do to me?” she whispered.

He could not stop himself. He leaned down, his lips grazing her ear: “I could show you.”

He felt her tremble, but despite the shiver in her body, her eyes challenged him. The adrenaline in his blood, mixed with desire and the recklessness of despair, made his blood sing. I’ll show her, he thought. Half of him was convinced she would push him away. The other half was too full of Clary: her nearness, the feel of her against him — to think straight. “If you want me to stop, tell me now,” he whispered, and when she said nothing, he brushed his lips against her hollow of her temple. “Or now.” His mouth found her cheek, the line of her jaw: he tasted her skin, sweet-salty, dust and desire. “Or now.” His mouth traced the line of her jaw and she arched up into him, making his fingers dig into the ground. Her small, panting breaths were driving him crazy, and he put his mouth over hers to quiet her, whispering, telling, not asking: “Now.”

And he kissed her. Gently at first, testing, but suddenly her hands were fists in the back of his shirt, and her softness was pressed against his chest and he felt the solid earth give way under him as he fell. He was kissing her the way he’d always wanted to, with a wild and total abandon, his tongue sweeping inside her mouth to duel with hers, and she was just as bold as he was, tasting him, exploring his mouth. He reached for the buttons of her coat just as she bit lightly at his lower lip and his whole body jerked.

She put her hands over his, and for a moment he was afraid she was going to tell him to stop, that this was insane, they’d both hate themselves tomorrow. But: “Let me,” she said, and he went still as she calmly undid the buttons and the coat fell open. The shirt she was wearing underneath was nearly sheer, and he could see the shape of her body underneath: the curves of her breasts, the indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips. He felt dizzy. He’d seen this much of other girls before, of course he had, but it had never mattered.

And now nothing else mattered.

She lifted her arms up, her head thrown back, pleading in her eyes. “Come back,” she whispered. “Kiss me again.”

He made a noise he didn’t think he’d ever made before and fell back against her, into her, kissing her eyelids, lips, throat, the pulse there — his hands slid under her flimsy shirt and onto the heat of her skin. He was pretty sure all the blood had left his brain as he fumbled at the clasp of her bra — which was ridiculous, what was the point of being a Shadowhunter and expert at everything if you couldn’t figure out the clasp on a bra? —  and heard his own soft exhalation as it came free and his hands were on her bare back, the fragile shape of her shoulder blades under his palms. Somehow the little noise she made was more erotic than seeing anyone else naked had ever been.

Her hands, small and determined, were at the hem of his shirt, tugging it off. He pushed hers up, around her ribs, wanting more of their skin to be touching. So this was the difference, he thought. This was what being in love meant. He’d always prided himself on his technique, on having control, on the response he could elicit. But that required evaluation, and evaluation required distance, and there was no distance now. He wanted nothing between himself and Clary.

His hands found the waistband of her jeans, the shape of her hipbones. He felt her fingers on his bare back, her the tips finding his scars and tracing them lightly. He wasn’t sure she knew she was doing it, but she was rolling her hips against his, making him shaky, making him want to go too fast. He reached down and fitted her more firmly against him, aligning her hips with his, and felt her gasp into his mouth. He thought she might pull away, but she slung her leg over his hip instead, pulling him even closer. For a second, he thought he might pass out.

“Jace,” she whispered. She kissed his neck, his collarbone. His hands were on her waist, moving up over her ribcage. Her skin was amazingly soft. She raised herself up as he slipped his hands under her bra, and kissed the star-shaped mark on his shoulder. He was about to ask her if what he was doing was all right when she drew back from him sharply, with an exclamation of surprise. . .

* * *

“What is it?” Jace froze. “Did I hurt you?”
“No. It was this.” She touched the silver chain around his neck. On its end hung a small silver circle of metal. It had bumped against her when she’d leaned forward. She stared at it now.
That ring—the weather-beaten metal with its pattern of stars—she knew that ring.
The Morgenstern ring. It was the same ring that had gleamed on Valentine’s hand in the dream the angel had showed them. It had been his, and he had given it to Jace, as it had always been passed along, father to son.
“I’m sorry,” Jace said. He traced the line of her cheek with his fingertip, a dreamlike intensity in his gaze. “I forgot I was wearing the damn thing.”
Sudden cold flooded Clary’s veins. “Jace,” she said, in a low voice. “Jace, don’t.”
“Don’t what? Don’t wear the ring?” “No, don’t—don’t touch me. Stop for a second.”

 

City of Lost Souls Teasers

  

1) He reached her and held his hands out; she took them, and let him pull her to her feet. His pale gold eyes searched her face. “I want you with me,” he said. “But I want it to be your choice. Once we go, there’s no coming back.”

2) “I know about parabatai,” said Magnus, an angry, dark undercurrent to his voice. “I’ve known parabatai so close they were almost the same person; do you know what happens, when one of them dies, to the one that’s left —?”

Le 2° teaser me fait peur car ça fait penser à Will &Jem......

City of Lost Soul, TMI#5, Cassandra Clare

Teaser :

 * "Magnus made a soft, pleased sound, and he gripped the back of Alec’s shirt"

 * “He is a Shadowhunter,” said Jocelyn. “His loyalty will be to Clave and Covenant.”

“He’s my friend,” said Magnus coldly. “His loyalty is to me.”

 * “You stole a boat,” she snapped. “What am I doing with you, you boat-stealing lunatic?”

  * “Sebastian never does anything just for fun.” Jace took her hands and pulled her toward him. “But I do.”

 * “Well, hello there, Mother,” Sebastian said in a voice like silk. “Surprised to see me?”

Petites infos sur le tome :

 * On sait aussi qu'il y aura une Dirty Sexy Scene avec Jace et qu'elle se déroulera dans un club.

 * Sur son twitter Cassandra a assuré qu'il y aurait beaucoup de scène Jace/Clary!

" Will there be a lot of Clary and Jace in CoLS?" Yes.

Scène entre Magnus et Alec, TMI ,Cassandra Clare

 Attention Cassandra Clare à préciser qu'il s'agit d'une scène qu'elle déconseille aux moins de 13 ans et il y a un baiser entre 2 hommes.

Special: Kissed

It was printed on thin paper, nearly parchment, in a thin, elegant, spidery hand. It announced a gathering at the humble home of Magnus the Magnificent Warlock, and promised attendees “a rapturous evening of delights beyond your wildest imaginings.” —City of Bones

 

Standing in the stairwell of Magnus’ home, Alec stared at the name written under the buzzer on the wall. BANE. The name didn’t really seem to suit Magnus, he thought, not now that he knew him. If you could really be said to know someone when you’d attended one of their parties, once, and then they’d saved your life later but hadn’t really hung around to be thanked. But the name Magnus Bane made him think of a towering sort of figure, with huge shoulders and formal purple warlock’s robes, calling down fire and lightning. Not Magnus himself, who was more of a cross between a panther and a demented elf.

 

Alec took a deep breath and let it out. Well, he’d come this far; he might as well go on. The bare lightbulb hanging overhead cast sweeping shadows as he reached forward and pressed the buzzer.

 

A moment later a voice echoed through the stairwell. “WHO CALLS UPON THE HIGH WARLOCK?”

 

“Er,” Alec said. “It’s me. I mean, Alec. Alec Lightwood.”

 

There was a sort of silence, as if even the hallway itself were surprised. Then a ping, and the second door opened, letting him out onto the stairwell. He headed up the rickety stairs into the darkness, which smelled like pizza and dust. The second floor landing was bright, the door at the far end open. Magnus Bane was leaning in the entryway.

 

Compared to the first time Alec has seen him, he looked fairly normal. His black hair still stood up in spikes, and he looked sleepy; his face, even with its cat’s eyes, very young. He wore a black t-shirt with the words ONE MILLION DOLLARS picked out across the chest in sequins, and jeans that hung low on his hips, low enough that Alec looked away, down at his own shoes. Which were boring.

 

“Alexander Lightwood,” said Magnus. He had just the faintest trace of an accent, something Alec couldn’t put his finger on, a lilt to his vowels. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

Alec looked past Magnus. “Do you have — company?”

 

Magnus crossed his arms, which did good things for his biceps, and leaned against the side of the door. “Why do you want to know?”

 

“I was hoping I could come in and talk to you.”

 

“Hmmm.” Magnus’ eyes raked him up and down. They really did shine in the dark, like a cat’s. “Well, all right then.” He turned abruptly away and disappeared into the apartment; after a startled moment, Alec followed.

 

The loft looked different without a hundred churning bodies in it. It was — well, not ordinary, but the sort of space someone might live in. Like most lofts, it had a big central room split into “rooms” by groupings of furniture. There was a square collection of sofas and tables off to the right, which Magnus gestured Alec toward. Alec sat down on a gold velvet sofa with elegant wooden curlicues on the arms.

 

“Would you like some tea?” Magnus asked. He wasn’t sitting in a chair, but had sprawled himself on a tufted ottoman, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

 

Alec nodded. He felt incapable of saying anything. Anything interesting or intelligent, that was. It was always Jace who said the interesting, intelligent things. He was Jace’s parabatai and that was all the glory he needed or wanted: like being the dark star to someone else’s supernova. But this was somewhere Jace couldn’t go with him, something Jace couldn’t help him with. “Sure.”

 

His right hand felt suddenly hot. He looked down, and realized he was holding a waxed paper cup from Joe, the Art of Coffee. It smelled like chai. He jumped, and only barely escaped spilling on himself. “By the Angel —”

 

“I LOVE that expression,” said Magnus. “It’s so quaint.”

 

Alec stared at him. “Did you steal this tea?”

 

Magnus ignored the question. “So,” he said. “Why are you here?”

 

Alec took a gulp of the stolen tea. “I wanted to thank you,” he said, when he came up for air. “For saving my life.”

 

Magnus leaned back on his hands. His t-shirt rode up over his flat stomach, and this time Alec had nowhere else to look. “You wanted to thank me.”

 

“You saved my life,” Alec said, again. “But I was delirious, and I don’t think I really thanked you. I know you didn’t have to do it. So thank you.”

 

Magnus’ eyebrows had disappeared up into his hairline. “You’re . . .welcome?”

 

Alec set his tea down. “Maybe I should go.”

 

Magnus sat up. “After you came so far? All the way to Brooklyn? Just to thank me?” He was grinning. “Now that would be a wasted effort.” He reached out and put his hand to Alec’s cheek, his thumb brushing along the cheekbone. His touch felt like fire, training tendrils of sparks in its wake. Alec sat frozen in surprise — surprise at the gesture, and surprise at the effect it was having on him. Magnus’ eyes narrowed, and he dropped his hand. “Huh,” he said to himself.

 

“What?” Alec was suddenly very worried that he’d done something wrong. “What is it?”

 

“You’re just . . .” A shadow moved behind Magnus; with fluid agility, the warlock twisted around and picked up a small gray and white tabby cat from the floor. The cat curled into the crook of his arm and looked at Alec with suspicion. Now two pairs of gold-green eyes were trained on him darkly. “Not what I expected.”

 

“From a Shadowhunter?”

 

“From a Lightwood.”

 

“I didn’t realize you knew my family that well.”

 

“I’ve known your family for hundreds of years.” Magnus’ eyes searched his face. “Now your sister, she’s a Lightwood. You—’

 

“She said you liked me.”

 

“What?”

 

“Izzy. My sister. She told me you liked me. Liked me, liked me.”

 

“Liked you, liked you?” Magnus buried his grin in the cat’s fur. “Sorry. Are we twelve now? I don’t recall saying anything to Isabelle . . .”

 

“Jace said it too.” Alec was blunt; it was the only way he knew how to be. “That you liked me. That when he buzzed up here, you thought he was me and you were disappointed that it was him. That never happens.”

 

“Doesn’t it? Well, it should.”

 

Alec was startled. “No — I mean Jace, he’s . . . Jace.”

 

“He’s trouble,” said Magnus. “But you are totally without guile. Which in a Lightwood, is a conundrum. You’ve always been a plotting sort of family, like low-rent Borgias. But there isn’t a lie in your face. I get the feeling everything you say is straightforward.”

 

Alec leaned forward. “Do you want to go out with me?”

 

Magnus blinked. “See, that’s what I mean. Straightforward.”

 

Alec chewed his lip and said nothing.

 

“Why do you want to go out with me?” Magnus inquired. He was rubbing Chairman Meow’s head, his long fingers folding the cat’s ears down. “Not that I’m not highly desirable, but the way you asked, it seemed as if you were having some sort of fit —”

 

“I just do,” Alec said. “And I thought you liked me, so you’d say yes, and I could try — I mean, we could try —” He put his face in his hands. “Maybe this was a mistake.”

 

Magnus’ voice was gentle. “Does anyone know you’re gay?”

 

Alec’s head jerked up; he found he was breathing a little hard, as if he’d run a race. But what could he do, deny it? When he’d come here to do exactly the opposite? “Clary,” he said, hoarsely. “Which is . . . Which was an accident. And Izzy, but she’d never say anything.”

 

“Not your parents. Not Jace?”

 

Alec thought about Jace knowing, and pushed the thought away, hard and fast. “No. No, and I don’t want them to know, especially Jace.”

 

“I think you could tell him.” Magnus rubbed Chairman Meow under the chin. “He went to pieces like a jigsaw puzzle when he thought you were going to die. He cares —”

 

“I’d rather not.” Alec was still breathing quickly. He rubbed at the knees of his jeans with his fists. “I’ve never had a date,” he said in a low voice. “Never kissed anyone. Not ever. Izzy said you liked me and I thought —”

 

“I’m not unsympathetic. But do you like me? Because this being gay business doesn’t mean you can just throw yourself at any guy and it’ll be fine because he’s not a girl. There are still people you like and people you don’t.”

 

Alec thought of his bedroom back at the Institute, of being in a delirium of pain and poison when Magnus had come in. He had barely recognized him. He was fairly sure he’d been screaming for his parents, for Jace, for Izzy, but his voice would only come out on a whisper. He remembered Magnus’ hands on him, his fingers cool and gentle. He remembered the death-grip he’d kept on Magnus’ wrist, for hours and hours, even after the pain had passed and he knew he would be all right. He remembered watching Magnus’ face in the light of the rising sun, the gold of sunrise sparking gold out of his eyes, and thinking how oddly beautiful he was, with his cat’s gaze and grace.

 

“Yes,” Alec said. “I like you.”

 

He met Magnus’ gaze squarely. The warlock was looking at him with a sort of admixture of curiosity and affection and puzzlement. “It’s so odd,” Magnus said. “Genetics. Your eyes, that color —” He stopped and shook his head.

 

“The Lightwoods you knew didn’t have blue eyes?”

 

“Green-eyed monsters,” said Magnus, and grinned. He deposited Chairman Meow on the ground, and the cat moved over to Alec, and rubbed against his leg. “The Chairman likes you.”

 

“Is that good?”

 

“I never date anyone my cat doesn’t like,” Magnus said easily, and stood up. “So let’s say Friday night?”

 

A great wave of relief came over Alec. “Really? You want to go out with me?”

 

Magnus shook his head. “You have to stop playing hard to get, Alexander. It makes things difficult.” He grinned. He had a grin like Jace’s — not that they looked anything alike, but the sort of grin that lit up his whole face. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

 

Alec drifted after Magnus toward the front door, feeling as if a weight had been taken off his shoulders, one he hadn’t even known he was carrying. Of course he’d have to come up with an excuse for where he was going Friday night, something Jace wouldn’t want to participate in, something he’d need to do alone. Or he could pretend to be sick and sneak out. He was so lost in thought he almost banged into the front door, which Magnus was leaning against, looking at him through eyes narrowed to crescents.

 

“What is it?” Alec said.

 

“Never kissed anyone?” Magnus said. “No one at all?”

 

“No,” said Alec, hoping this didn’t disqualify him from being datable. “Not a real kiss —”

 

“Come here.” Magnus took him by the elbows and pulled him close. For a moment Alec was entirely disoriented by the feeling of being so close to someone else, to the kind of person he’d wanted to be close to for so long. Magnus was long and lean but not skinny; his body was hard, his arms lightly muscled but strong; he was an inch or so taller than Alec, which hardly ever happened, and they fit together perfectly. Magnus’ finger was under his chin, tilting his face up, and then they were kissing. Alec heard a small hitching gasp come from his own throat and then their mouths were pressed together with a sort of controlled urgency. Magnus, Alec thought dazedly, really knew what he was doing. His lips were soft, and he parted Alec’s expertly, exploring his mouth: a symphony of lips, teeth, tongue, every movement waking up a nerve ending Alec had never known he had.

 

He found Magnus’ waist with his fingers, touching the strip of bare skin he’d been trying to avoid looking at before, and slid his hands up under Magnus’ shirt. Magnus jerked with surprise, then relaxed, his hands running down Alec’s arms, over his chest, his waist, finding the belt loops on Alec’s jeans and using them to pull him closer. His mouth left Alec’s and Alec felt the hot pressure of his lips on his throat, where the skin was so sensitive that it seemed directly connected to the bones in his legs, which were about to give out. Just before he slid to the floor, Magnus let him go. His eyes were shining and so was his mouth.

 

“Now you’ve been kissed,” he said, reached behind him, and yanked the door open. “See you Friday?”

 

Alec cleared his throat. He felt dizzy, but he also felt alive — blood rushing through his veins like traffic at top speed, everything seemingly almost too brightly colored. As he stepped through the door, he turned and looked at Magnus, who was watching him bemusedly. He reached forward and took hold of the front of Magnus’ t-shirt and dragged the warlock toward him. Magnus stumbled against him, and Alec kissed him, hard and fast and messy and unpracticed, but with everything he had. He pulled Magnus against him, his own hand between them, and felt Magnus’ heart stutter in his chest. 

 

He broke off the kiss, and drew back.

 

“Friday,” he said, and let Magnus go. He backed away, down the landing, Magnus looking after him. The warlock crossed his arms over his shirt — wrinkled where Alec had grabbed it — and shook his head, grinning.

 

“Lightwoods,” Magnus said. “They always have to have the last word.”

 

He shut the door behind him, and Alec ran down the steps, taking them two at a time, his blood still singing in his ears like music.

 

City of Fallen Angel ,TMI #4, Cassandra Clare

Sortie française de City of Fallen Angel en Juin 2012.

Synopsis :

City of Fallen Angels takes place two months after the events of City of Glass. In it, a mysterious someone’s killing the Shadowhunters who used to be in Valentine’s Circle and displaying their bodies around New York City in a manner designed to provoke hostility between Downworlders and Shadowhunters, leaving tensions running high in the city and disrupting Clary’s plan to lead as normal a life as she can — training to be a Shadowhunter, and pursuing her relationship with Jace. As Jace and Clary delve into the issue of the murdered Shadowhunters, they discover a mystery that has deeply personal consequences for them — consequences that may strengthen their relationship, or rip it apart forever.

Meanwhile, internecine warfare among vampires is tearing the Downworld community apart, and only Simon — the Daylighter who everyone wants on their side — can decide the outcome; too bad he wants nothing to do with Downworld politics. Love, blood, betrayal and revenge: the stakes are higher than ever in City of Fallen Angels.

Ce que j'en pense :

J'étais impatiente de me replonger dans cet univers des "Shadowhunters" et ce livre ne m'a pas déçue.

A la fin du 3, il y a quelques questions laissées en suspens,sur le passé de Clary que ça mère ne lui aurait pas tout dit, dans ce livre Cassandra Clare exploite ses pistes là et d'autres!

Ce livre est beaucoup plus romancé que les autres, on suit les relations amoureuses de Jace et Clary mais aussi celle d'Alec et Magnus sans oublier la vie sentimentale plutôt compliquée de Simon.

Donc l'histoire reprend 2 mois après les événements de la fin du tome 3, Clary suit un entraînement pour devenir Shadowhunter.Et elle peut enfin vivre sa relation avec Jace au grand jour,on a d'ailleurs de très belles scènes entre nos deux amoureux et on s'aperçoit que leur amour est vraiment très fort.Mais on se rend compte que Jace n'est pas vraiment comme d'habitude,qu'il y a quelque chose qui le perturbe.

Simon devient un personnage clé,d'ailleurs on suit très souvent l'histoire à travers lui.Il devient un pièce maîtresse dans l'organisation des vampires de New York,d'une part car il peut sortir en plein jour et d'autre part à cause de la marque de Cain,qui lui assure une certaine protection.

Dans ce tome, il doit apprendre à gérer sa véritable nature de vampire,et il se rend compte de certaines réalités concernant cette condition,à savoir la vie éternelle ou la maîtrise de la soif.

Mais surtout Simon gère très mal sa vie amoureuse,il m'a beaucoup fait rire.

J'ai vraiment apprécié son personnage dans le tome.

Pour ce qui ont lu Clockwork angel, on a le plaisir de retrouver ou d'entendre parler de certains personnage de cette saga,ce qui nous donne l'occasion d'émettre pleins d'hypothèses sur ce qu'ils sont devenus!!

Et cette fin,on a envie de hurler mais en même temps de dire "bien joué" car ça laisse présager un tome 5 encore meilleur, où on va encore souffrir !

Je ne me suis pas ennuyée dans ce tome,il met un peu de temps à démarrer mais une fois que l'action s'installe on ne peu pas arrêter de lire!

Vous pouvez retrouver l'avis de Lilie, avec qui j'ai fait une LC pour ce livre,et qui a attendu 1 mois que j'ai le livre pour le lire,merci encore.

Citations :

 * "You're the first Shadowhunter I've ever met."

“That’s too bad,” said Jace, “since all the others you meet from now on will be a terrible letdown."

 * "You're just worried they'll hire a male instructor and he'll be hotter than you."

Jace's eyebrows went up. "Hotter than me?"

"It could happen," Clary said, "You know, theoretically."

"Theoretically the planet could suddenly crack in half, leaving me on one side and you on the other, forever and tragically parted, but I'm not worried about that either. Some things," Jace said, with his customary crooked smile, "are just too unlikely to dwell upon."

 * "No. That's Clary; shes's my best friend." Simon pocketed his phone. "And she has a boyfriend. Like, really, really, really has a boyfriend. The nuclear bomb of boyfriends. Trust me on this one."

Explications sur le titre COFA  source

ATTENTION SPOILER POUR CEUX QUI N'ONT PAS LU LE LIVRE

16) Que signifie le titre City of Fallen Angel?

C'est une métaphore. Le sous titre du livre était "Qui sera tenté par l'obscurité?" et le livre parle de tentation et d'être la proie de sombres pulsions. Simon tombe quand il mort Maureen; Alec quand il libère Camille; Clary quand elle réveille le mort; Et Jace bien sûr de la manière la plus spectaculaire de toutes. Nous tombons tous en disgrâce, c'est le message.

La lettre de Jace à Clary dans City of Bones

J'ai enfin reçu mon exemplaire dédicacé et avec la lettre de Jace que je vais pouvoir lire!!

Voici une traduction de la lettre faite par aurelia du blog "Shadowhunter"

Clary,

En dépit de tout je n'arrive pas à me faire à l'idée que cette bague soit perdue pour toujours, pas plus que je n'arrive à me faire à l'idée de te quitter pour toujours. Et bien que je n'ai pas le choix concernant l'une d'elle, au moins je peux choisir pour l'autre. Je te laisse l'anneau de notre famille car il te revient autant qu'à moi.

J'écris cela pendant que le soleil se lève. Tu es endormie, des rêves défilent derrière tes paupières agitées. J'aimerais savoir à quoi tu penses. J'aimerais me glisser dans ta tête et pouvoir voir le monde à ta façon. J'aimerais me voir comme tu me vois. Mais peut-être qu'en fait je ne veux pas voir ça. Peut-être que plus encore cela me donnerait l'impression de perpétrer envers toi un mensonge et je ne pourrais pas le supporter.

Je t'appartiens. Tu pourrais faire ce que tu veux avec moi et je te laisserais le faire. Tu pourrais me demander n'importe quoi et je me briserais en essayant de te rendre heureuse. Mon coeur me dit que c'est une des meilleures sensations que j'ai ressenti jusque là. Mais mon esprit connait la différence entre vouloir ce qu'on ne peut pas avoir et vouloir ce qu'on ne devrait pas vouloir. Et je ne devrais pas te désirer.

Toute la nuit je t'ai regardée dormir, j'ai vu le clair de lune dessiner sur ton visage des ombres en noir et blanc. Je n'ai jamais rien vu d'aussi beau. Je pense à la vie que nous aurions pu avoir si les choses avaient été différentes. Une vie où une nuit comme celle-ci ne serait pas un évènement singulier, séparé de tout ce qui est réel mais toutes les nuits comme celle-là. Mais les choses sont différentes et je ne peux pas te regarder sans avoir l'impression que je t'ai poussée à m'aimer.

Ce que personne ne voudra admettre à voix haute c'est que je suis le seul à avoir une chance contre Valentin. Je peux m'approcher de lui comme personne d'autre ne pourra le faire. Je peux faire semblant de me joindre à lui et il me croira, jusqu'à ce que je mette fin à tout cela, d'une manière ou d'une autre. J'ai quelque chose qui appartient à Sébastien, je peux le suivre jusqu'à la cachette de mon père. Et c'est ce que je vais faire. Je t'ai menti la nuit dernière, je t'ai dit que je voulais juste une nuit avec toi. Mais je veux passer toutes mes nuits avec toi. Et c'est pour cela que je vais m'enfuir par ta fenêtre comme un lâche. Parce que si je devais te le dire en face, je n'arriverais plus à m'en aller.

Je ne t'en veux pas si tu me détestes, au contraire, j'aimerais que tu le fasses.

Tant que j'aurai la possibilité de rêver, je rêverai de toi.

Jace

La coupe mortelle , Cassandra Clare

Synopsis :

Clary n'en croit pas ses yeux. Elle vient de voir le plus beau garçon de la soirée commettre un meurtre. Et détail terrifiant : le corps de la victime a disparu d'un seul coup ! Mais le pire reste à venir. Sa mère a été kidnappée par d'étranges créatures et l'appartement complètement dévasté. Sans le savoir, Clary a pénétré dans une guerre invisible entre d'antiques forces démoniaques et la société secrète des Chasseurs d'Ombres. Une guerre dans laquelle elle a un rôle fatal à jouer.

Ce que j'en pense :

La coupe mortelle est le 1° tome de la saga "La Cité des Ténèbres" qui comprendra 6 tomes.


Clary Fray a 15 ans et vit à New York. Un soir où elle sort en ville avec son meilleur ami Simon, elle se retrouve au coeur d'une querelle des plus étranges et voit des choses qu'elle ne devrait pas voir. De là, elle rencontre Jace Wayland, puis sa mère va disparaître et Clary est plongée dans un nouveau monde qu'il lui était jusqu'alors inconnu,celui des chasseurs d'Ombres.

Le monde des Chasseurs d'Ombres est sombre et continuellement en guerre. Les Chasseurs d'Ombres sont des hommes entraînés à combattre les démons, qui répendent le mal sur tous les mondes. C'est un univers surnaturel qui mêle des créatures démoniaques (lycantrophes, vampires, fées,...) aux hommes (Chasseurs d'Ombres, Frères Silencieux,...), qui essayent de cohabiter en tuant les démons. 

Jace est un personnage déterminé et remarquable par ses répliques sarcastiques qui donnent le sourire et apportent un peu de lumière à ce livre assez sombre. Ses réparties, tout comme son statut de Chasseur d'Ombres, le rendent évidemment très sexy. 
Clary se révèle forte et sûre d'elle car même si elle est plngée dans un monde dangereux elle ne recule deavnt rien pour atteindre ses objectifs.


Cassandra Clare est la reine des cliffhanger et je peux dire que dans ce tome je n'ai rien vu venir !!


Vous pouvez lire la chronique de ma partenaire Read your Dreams ici

Citations :

  * "Is this the part where you start tearing off strips of your shirt to bind my wounds?"
"If you wanted me to rip my clothes off, you should have just asked."

 *   "Do you remember back at the hotel when you promised that if we lived, you’d get dressed up in a nurse’s outfit and give me a sponge bath?" asked Jace.
"It was Simon who promised you the sponge bath."
"As soon as I’m back on my feet, handsome," said Simon.
"I knew we should have left you a rat."4

  * "It means 'Shadowhunters: Looking Better in Black Than the Widows of our Enemies Since 1234'."

Happy Cofa release day !

ATTENTION SPOILERS SUR LES 3 PREMIERS TOMES

Because It is Bitter- City of Ash Jace POV

The scene that takes place during pages 170-174 of City of Ashes, in the chapter The Seelie Court, here from Jace’s point of view. I even gave it a name — “Because It Is Bitter.” Because boy, is Jace bitter here.  source

 

“But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart.” — Stephen Crane

“I know that I will not leave my sister here in your Court,” said Jace, “and since there is nothing to be learned from either her or myself, perhaps you could do us the favor of releasing her?”

 

The Queen smiled. It was a beautiful, terrible smile. The Queen was a lovely woman; she had that inhuman loveliness that faeries did, that was more like the loveliness of hard crystal than the beauty of a human. The Queen did not look any particular age: she could have been sixteen or forty-five. Jace supposed there were those who would have found her attractive — people had died for love of the Queen — but she gave him a cold feeling in his chest, as if he’d swallowed ice water too fast. “What if I told you she could be freed by a kiss?”

 

It was Clary who replied, bewildered: “You want Jace to kiss you?”

 

As the Queen and Court laughed, the icy feeling in Jace’s chest intensified. Clary didn’t understand faeries, he thought. He’d tried to explain, but there was no explaining, not really. Whatever the Queen wanted from them, it wasn’t a kiss from him; she could have demanded that without all this show and nonsense. What she wanted was to see them pinned and struggling like butterflies. It was something immortality did to you, he’d often thought: dulled your senses, your emotions; the sharp, uncontrollable, pitiable responses of human beings were to faeries  like fresh blood to a vampire. Something living. Something they didn’t have themselves.

 

“Despite his charms,” the Queen said, flicking a glance toward Jace — her eyes were green, like Clary’s, but not like Clary’s at all — “that kiss will not free the girl.”

 

“I could kiss Meliorn,” suggested Isabelle, shrugging.

 

The Queen shook her head slowly. “Nor that. Nor any one of my Court.”

 

Isabelle threw up her hands; Jace wanted to ask her what she’d expected — kissing Meliorn wouldn’t have bothered her, so obviously the Queen wouldn’t care about it. He supposed it had been nice of her to offer, but Iz, at least, ought to know better. She’d had dealings with faeries before.

 

Maybe it wasn’t just knowing the way the Fair Folk thought, Jace wondered. Maybe it was knowing how people who enjoyed cruelty for the sake of cruelty thought. Isabelle was thoughtless, and sometimes vain, but she wasn’t cruel. She tossed her dark hair back and scowled. “I’m not kissing any of you,” she said firmly. “Just so it’s official.”

 

“That hardly seems necessary,” said Simon, stepped forward. “If a kiss is all . . .”

 

He took a step toward Clary, who didn’t move away. The ice in Jace’s chest turned into liquid fire; he clenched his hands at his sides as Simon took Clary gently by the arms and looked down into her face. She rested her hands on Simon’s waist, as if she’d done it a million times before. Maybe she had, for all he knew. He knew Simon loved her; he’d known it since he’d seen them together in that stupid coffee shop, the other boy practically choking on getting the words “I love you” out of his mouth while Clary looked around the room, restlessly alive, her green eyes darting everywhere. She’s not interested in you, mundane boy, he’d thought with satisfaction. Get lost. And then been surprised he’d thought it. What difference did it make to him what this girl he barely knew thought?

 

That seemed like a lifetime ago. She wasn’t some girl he barely knew anymore: she was Clary. She was the one thing in his life that mattered more than anything else, and watching Simon put his hands on her, wherever he wanted to, made him feel at once sick and faint and murderously angry. The urge to stalk up and rip the two of them apart was so strong he could barely breathe.

 

Clary glanced back at him, her red hair slipping over her shoulder. She looked concerned, which was bad enough. He couldn’t stand the thought that she might feel sorry for him. He looked away fast, and caught the eye of the Seelie Queen, glimmering with delight: now this was what she was after. Their pain, their agony.

 

“No,” said the Queen, to Simon, in a voice like the soft slice of a knife. “That is not what I want either.”

 

Simon stepped away from Clary, reluctantly. Relief pounded through Jace’s veins like blood, drowning out what his friends were saying. For a moment all he cared about was that he wasn’t going to have to watch Clary kiss Simon. Then Clary seemed to swim into focus: she was very pale, and he couldn’t help wondering what she was thinking. Was she disappointed not to be kissed by Simon? Relieved as he was? He thought of Simon kissing her hand earlier than day and shoved the memory away viciously, still staring at his sister. Look up, he thought. Look at me. If you love me, you’ll look at me.

 

She crossed her arms over her chest, the way she did when she was cold or upset. But she didn’t look up. The conversation went on around them: who was going to kiss who, what was going to happen. Hopeless rage rose up in Jace’s chest, and as usual, found its escape in a sarcastic comment.

 

“Well, I’m not kissing the mundane,” he said. “I’d rather stay down here and rot.”

 

“Forever?” said Simon. His eyes were big and dark and serious. “Forever’s an awfully long time.”

 

Jace looked back at those eyes. Simon was probably a good person, he thought. He loved Clary and he wanted to take care of her and make her happy. He’d probably make a spectacular boyfriend. Logically, Jace knew, it was exactly what he ought to want for his sister. But he couldn’t look at Simon without wanting to kill someone. “I knew it,” he said nastily. “You want to kiss me, don’t you?”

 

“Of course not. But if—”

 

“I guess it’s true what they say. There are no straight men in the trenches.”
“That’s atheists, jackass.” Simon was bright red. “There are no atheists in the trenches.”

 

It was the Queen who interrupted them, leaning forward so that her white neck and breasts were displayed above the neckline of her low-cut gown. “While this is all very amusing, the kiss that will free the girl is the kiss that she most desires,” she said. “Only that and nothing more.”

 

Simon went from red to white. If the kiss that Clary most desired wasn’t Simon’s, then . . .the way she was looking at Jace, from Jace to Clary, answered that.

 

Jace’s heart started to pound. He met the Queen’s eyes with his own. “Why are you doing this?”

 

“I rather thought I was offering you a boon,” she said. “Desire is not always lessened by disgust. Nor can it be bestowed, like a favor, to those most deserving of it. And as my words bind my magic, so you can know the truth. If she doesn’t desire your kiss, she won’t be free.”

 

Jace felt  blood flood into his face. He was vaguely aware of Simon arguing that Jace and Clary were brother and sister, that it wasn’t right, but he ignored him. The Seelie Queen was looking at him, and her eyes were like the sea before a deadly storm, and he wanted to say thank you. Thank you.

 

And that was the most dangerous thing of all, he thought, as around him his companions argued about whether Clary and Jace had to do this, or what any of them would be willing to do to escape the Court. To allow the Queen to give you something you wanted — truly, truly wanted — was to put yourself in her power. How had she looked at him and known, he wondered? That this was what he thought about, wanted, woke from dreams of, gasping and sweating?  That when he thought, really thought, about the fact that he might never get to kiss Clary again, he wanted to die or hurt or bleed so badly he’d go up to the attic and train alone for hours until he was so exhausted he had no choice but to pass out, exhausted. He’d have bruises in the morning, bruises and cuts and scraped skin and if he could have named all his injuries they would have had the same name: Clary, Clary, Clary.

 

Simon was still talking, saying something, angry again. “You don’t have to do this, Clary, it’s a trick—”

 

“Not a trick,” said Jace. The calmness in his own voice surprised him. “A test.” He looked at Clary. She was biting her lip, her hand wound in a curl of her hair; the gestures so characteristic, so very much a part of her, they shattered his heart. Simon was arguing with Isabelle now as the Seelie Queen lounged back and watched them like a sleek, amused cat.

 

Isabelle sounded exasperated. ‘Who cares, anyway? It’s just a kiss.”

 

“That’s right,” Jace said.

 

Clary looked up, then finally, and her wide green eyes rested on him. He moved toward her, and as it always did, the rest of the world fell away until it was just them, as if they stood on a spotlighted stage in an empty auditorium. He put his hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him. She had stopped biting her lip, and her cheeks were flushed, her eyes a brilliant green. He could feel the tension in his own body, the effort of holding back, of not pulling her against him and taking this once chance, however dangerous and stupid and unwise, and kissing her the way he had thought he would never, in his life, be able to kiss her again.

 

“It’s just a kiss,” he said, and heard the roughness in his own voice, and wondered if she heard it, too.
Not that it mattered—there was no way to hide it. It was too much. He had never wanted like this before. There had always been girls. He had asked himself, in the dead of night, staring at the blank walls of his room, what made Clary so different. She was beautiful, but other girls were beautiful. She was smart, but there were other smart girls. She understood him, laughed when he laughed, saw through the defenses he put up to what was underneath. There was no Jace Wayland more real than the one he saw in her eyes when she looked at him.

 

But still, maybe, he could find all that somewhere else. People fell in love, and lost, and moved on. He didn’t know why he couldn’t. He didn’t know why he didn’t even want to. All he knew was that whatever he had to owe to Hell or Heaven for this chance, he was going to make it count.

 

He reached down and took her hands, winding his fingers with hers, and whispered in her ear. “You can close your eyes and think of England, if you like,” he said.

 

Her eyes fluttered shut, her lashes coppery lines against her pale, fragile skin. “I’ve never even been to England,” she said, and the softness, the anxiety in her voice almost undid him. He had never kissed a girl without knowing she wanted it too, usually more than he did, and this was Clary, and he didn’t know what she wanted. He slid his hands up hers, over the sleeves of her damply clinging shirt, to her shoulders. Her eyes were still closed, but she shivered, and leaned into him — barely, but it was permission enough.

 

His mouth came down on hers. And that was it. All the self-control he’d exerted over the past weeks went, like water crashing through a broken dam. Her arms came up around his neck and he pulled her against him, and she was soft and pliant but surprisingly strong like no one else he’d ever held. His hands flattened against her back, pressing her against him, and she was up on the tips of her toes, kissing him as fiercely as he was kissing her. He flicked his tongue along her lips, opening her mouth under his, and she tasted salt and sweet like faerie water. He clung to her more tightly, knotting his hands in her hair, trying to tell her, with the press of his mouth on hers, all the things he could never say out loud: I love you; I love you and I don’t care that you’re my sister; don’t be with him, don’t want him, don’t go with him. Be with me. Want me. Stay with me.
I don’t know how to be without you.

 

His hands slid down to her waist, and he was pulling her against him, lost in the sensations that spiraled through his nerves and blood and bones, and he had no idea what he would have done or said next, if it would have been something he could never have pretended away or taken back, but he heard a soft hiss of laughter — the Faerie Queen — in his ears, and it jolted him back to reality. He pulled away from Clary before he it was too late, unlocking her hands from around his neck and stepping back. It felt like cutting his own skin open, but he did it.

 

Clary was staring at him. Her lips were parted, her hands still open. Her eyes were wide. Behind her, Isabelle was gaping at them; Simon looked as if he was about to throw up.

 

She’s my sister, Jace thought. My sister. But the words meant nothing. They might as well have been in a foreign language. If there had ever been any hope that he could have come to think of Clary as just his sister, this — what had just happened between them — had exploded it into a thousand pieces like a meteorite blasting into the surface of the earth. He tried to read Clary’s face — did she feel the same? She looked as if she wanted nothing more than to turn around and run away. I know you felt it, he said to her with his eyes, and it was half bitter triumph and half pleading. I know you felt it, too. But there was no answer on her face; she wrapped her arms around herself, the way she always did when she was upset, and hugged herself as if she were cold. She glanced away from him.

 

Jace felt as if his heart was being squeezed by a fist. He whirled on the Queen. “Was that good enough?” he demanded. “Did that entertain you?”

 

The Queen gave him a look: special and secretive and shared between the two of them. You warned her about us, the look seemed to say. That we would hurt her, break her as you might break a twig between your fingers. But you, who thought you could not be touched — you are the one who has been broken. “We are quite entertained,” she said. “But not, I think, so much as the both of you.”